


Behind Closed Doors

by Mohini



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Graphic description of eating disorder, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1188099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn’t about being thin. It’s about control. Absolute, complete control over something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind Closed Doors

I stand on the other side of the heavy oak door, wishing it muffled the sound more than it does. I can only barely hear him, but it’s more than enough to send chills down my spine. I thought we were past this. “Draco?” I call through the door. I hear the pitiful choking sounds, the splash of something hitting the water in the toilet bowl, a harsh cough followed by more of the splashing. “Draco, I’m going to open the door now,” I tell him as he retches again. I turn the knob and even though I know what to expect, the sight of him hunched over the toilet with his fingers down his throat is physically painful. I turn off the tap, the running water he has always used in a feeble attempt to cover up the sounds of his purging has once again failed to hide anything at all. He’s still at it, fingers moving in and out of his mouth as he coughs, gags, vomits and repeats the process. I know better than to say a word when he reaches for the glass of water perched on the edge of the sink without looking up. He drinks it in a few long gulps and returns his hand to his mouth, fingers sliding back into his throat. I watch as he braces one arm against the seat, forcing himself to stand bent nearly double at the waist as he holds his fingers in his throat, vomit dripping down his arm now as it pours past his lips and into the bowl. He pauses for a moment, both hands holding onto the rim of the toilet now, still standing in that bizarre upside down posture. His shirt is off and I can see the effort of his ragged breathing, his stomach contracting visibly as he coughs over and over. He shakes his head as if trying to clear it and he shoves the spit and vomit soaked hand back into his mouth, bringing up thin bile and nothing more.

                “More water, Harry, please,” he chokes out, once again bracing himself against the toilet. His knees are shaking now, and he sinks down into a crouch, his head in the toilet and his stomach contracting in a forceful round of heaving. I want to refuse, to hold his wrists in my hands and force him to stop this. Instead, I fill the glass at the tap and hand it to him, watching as he repeats the process, demands more water, and does it again.

                Finally, blessedly, he vomits up nothing but clear liquid and he removes his hand from his mouth and reaches up to flush the toilet. He reaches for the toilet tissue, wipes his mouth and blows his nose before pushing himself back onto his feet and staggering to the sink. He washes his hands, meticulously cleaning under and around the fingernails of the hand that has been scraping against the back of his throat. I watch him dampen a toothbrush, methodically apply toothpaste and scrub his mouth clean. He rinses his mouth out, then splashes water onto his face, washing it as well. Through it all, I stand there, not knowing what to do but not wanting to leave him alone, either.

                It’s been months since he has purged. It’s probably been closer to a year since he has been this aggressive about it. Sessions like this leave him exhausted, shaky, and guilty as all hell. When he finishes scrubbing his face, he turns toward me, and I can see the pain in his eyes. “I love you,” I tell him. There are no other words. There is nothing that helps. I’ve tried it all. I’ve told him how beautiful his is, what a wonderful lover and husband he is. I’ve told him how much this scares me, how much it hurts to watch him torture himself. The words are worthless.

                He moves closer to me and rests his head on my shoulder, arms going around my waist as he leans in close. I wrap him up in an embrace, feeling the slight tremors that move through his body, the aftereffects of a solid thirty minutes of vomiting. His shirt is folded neatly on the edge of the tub, the crisp tie he wore to the meal at the Manor stretched over the top of it. I had worried throughout the meal, the moment I saw his hands begin to tremble as he held tightly to the flatware I had feared that this was coming.

                New Year’s Day. Lucius and Narcissa had been adamant that we join them for a holiday brunch. Seven courses later, even I had felt a bit queasy. Draco had eaten everything placed in front of him, his father glaring at him each time he looked as though he was even considering leaving anything on the plate. I knew full well that food was a battle of control between them. Lucius had used food as a weapon when Draco was growing up, withholding it for alleged failings and showering Draco with sweets when he was in good favor. It was little wonder that even as an adult, Draco had major issues with eating. We had managed to excuse ourselves from the Manor a few hours after the meal, when Narcissa had announced that they were heading to an afternoon performance of a Wizarding symphony in London and needed to get ready. The moment we exited the Floo, Draco had bolted for the third floor and this bathroom, the one in which we have spent far too much time over the last eight years. This was not what I considered a good omen for a new year.

                His head buried against my shoulder, Draco whispers something, and I barely hear it. He repeats it, and then it is a barely whispered chant and I know that in one morning, Lucius bloody Malfoy has thrown him straight back into hell. “Too late, too late, too late,” Draco whispers.

                His exposed skin is cool to the touch, and the endorphin rush from his earlier purging is starting to fade. The manic gleam is going out of his eyes and I can see that he is beginning to process what is happening. Arms still wrapped around my waist as he whispers the damning words over and over. “Too late, too late, too late.”

                “I know, it’s going to be alright,” I tell him. I slip one hand down to gently massage his stomach. A session like that leaves cramps that can last for hours. I rub the still cool skin, feeling him gradually relax against me. “I love you,” I repeat. He looks up at me, his eyes pale and bloodshot, the skin around them puffy. His lips continue to move silently, repeating over and over that he had been too late. I know that I will be fighting to keep him away from the potions ingredients this evening. To keep him from throwing together a laxative that will keep him awake all night long.

                I move my hand lower, pressing it against his abdomen and gently feeling the still spasming organs there. He is so thin, always so very thin. He whimpers as my probing fingers press down at the junction of the stomach and small intestine, working my way then along the lines of his colon. He has always sworn that he can feel the food moving through him, that it hurts him. This ritual soothes him, eases the pain enough to keep him calm. The silent numbing charms I cast as I move take care of the rest. I know that what I am doing is technically wrong, that I am enabling his behavior, that I should tell him that I won’t allow it, that he must stop. I should have forced him to get proper treatment years ago. I know all of these things. Too many years of training and the advice I give far too often to the families of patients have made it very clear that this is not going to help him. But here, with my husband in my arms shaking and whispering to himself, I am not a respected Healer. I am Harry, partner to Draco, and willing to do absolutely anything to get him through this with his sanity intact.

                “Please, Harry. Please. Hurts. Have to get it out.”

                “I know, I know,” I tell him, my hand still moving, attempting to soothe.

                “Have to,” he whispers, and he is still shaking.

                “Shhh, I know. I’ll take care of you,” I tell him, and he whimpers softly as I press down against his stomach once more, trying to soothe the cramping that I can feel through his skin.

                “Need to vomit,” he whispers after a while.

                “No, you don’t. Your stomach is empty,” I reply. We’ve had this discussion a thousand times.

                “I can feel it. Please, Harry? Just once more?”

                “No,” I tell him. He whimpers and squirms against me and I tighten my grip on him.

                A moment later, still against me, he takes a long, deep breath. A part of me recoils at the knowledge of what is coming. He gulps down more air, then tenses against me before he retches, hard. I had sincerely hoped that he was no longer capable of this, of attempting to purge without using his hands. I spin him around quickly, and he leans over the toilet and spits up a thin string of bile.

                “Stop,” I tell him, my voice louder and more firm than it has been since I announced I was entering the room. He wrenches a hand out of my grip and before I can stop him he has it down his throat, desperately seeking his gag reflex as he gulps down more and more air. He heaves again, this time splattering the toilet with thin bile tinged with red. I grab his hand and pull it out of his mouth, not quite fast enough to stop a second wave of retching. I pin him against me when he stops, turning him so that he is now facing me.

                “You got it all, Draco. You’re empty and clean. Stop. Please. You have to stop now. You’re hurting yourself. You’re bleeding now. You have to stop.”

                He goes limp, and I know that finally, finally, my words have penetrated. “Oh fuck,” he whispers, and then the tears come. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he begins to babble, and I put a finger over his chapped lips.

                “Shhhh, none of that. I’ve got you. Everything’s alright now,” I assure him. His words dissolve into great shuddering sobs, and I hold him close and whisper reassurance in his ear. We have been here so many times. I truly thought that it was behind us, but a few hours in his father’s presence and the man I have loved for so many years dissolved into the shattered little boy I grew to know in our final year of schooling. There are many reasons we rarely visit his childhood home, and days like today are chief among them. He loves his mother too much to cut off contact entirely, but any occasion that combines his father and food can make my strong, resilient partner into a shell of himself, desperate to find release in any way possible. I used to think that perhaps Lucius didn’t know what his son forces himself to do after such a large meal. Having watched him this morning, though, I am certain that he knows exactly what the aftermath is.

                This has been the longest stretch of relative health I have ever known him to have. True, his eating habits are bizarre, ritualized, and absolutely inflexible. Yet he has been eating, and he has been largely keeping his meals down. When he finally quiets, I gather him in my arms and stand, cradling him as one would a young child. I call for one of the house-elves and send it off to turn down the covers of our bed and set a warming charm on it. I help him into soft, comfortable pyjamas and climb into the bed beside him after dressing myself.

                He curls up with his head on my shoulder and I run my hand through his hair, feeling his warm breath against my neck. “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask him quietly.

                “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and though my instinct is to tell him to stop being sorry, I bite my tongue. “I don’t know what happened. I just felt so sick, so fucking full, and it hurt so much. You need to know I’ve been being good. I haven’t lied.” He pauses, taking a long, slow breath in as he tenses up. I continue carding my fingers through his hair as he pants softly through the worst of the cramp. “Fuck,” he murmurs after a moment.

                “I’ll get you a pain draught if it doesn’t ease up soon,” I tell him. He nods against me, one arm curled around his narrow abdomen.

                “That bad?” he asks. I wonder for a moment if my earlier assessment of his lack of awareness had been too generous.

                “Tell me what you remember,” I say quietly, beginning to fear he had managed to fully disassociate during the episode. This has happened once before, back when we were still in school. I had returned to our room to find him passed out next to the toilet, and when I woke him he had absolutely no idea what had happened.

                “Brunch at the manor. Too much fucking food and Father glaring daggers. Hurt so much. So, so much. You were mad at me, I think. I ran off when we got home, didn’t want you to see. Um, obviously purged, throat hurts and my fucking stomach is killing me. Then you were telling me to stop, that I was bleeding,” he tenses up again, soft huffing breaths as he rubs at him stomach. “Oh, fuck,” he whispers.

                “Yeah. That just about says it,” I reply. He is beginning to tremble, and I hold him a little closer, hoping to reassure him. “Breathe,” I coach quietly, “You’re alright now. Just breathe.” I know that this is what frightens him the most. For Draco, this isn’t about being thin. It’s about control. Absolute, complete control over something. Blacking out during a purge means he has lost control. It rather nearly guarantees a panic attack and the time, apparently, is now.

                The trembling grows more pronounced, his breathing more ragged by the moment. There is nothing I can do for him when this happens. I hold him, waiting it out as he shakes and gasps. His hands move to clutch at me, tight fists forming as he clings to my sleep clothes. I continue holding him, carding my fingers through his hair and hoping that it will be over soon. In the end this is a bad one, but a brief one at the same time. He is back in control within a few minutes.

                “I think I need a sedative,” he says quietly. I nod, Summoning a phial from the potions cabinet in the en suite and opening it for him. He drinks it down and curls back up against me.

                “Will you stay with me, please?” he asks.

                “For a lifetime,” I remind him, kissing him softly on his brow. “I’ll be right here when you wake, Draco. Close your eyes, love. I’m not going anywhere.”

                He begins to relax as the potion works its way into his bloodstream. A few moments later, he is asleep, his breathing deep and even. Even though I am exhausted, it is barely evening. The sedative will keep him asleep for a few hours at best, but I fear for what he will be like when he wakes. Sometimes, he is nearly normal. Other times, he is clingy and emotional for days after what he views as a failure on his part. I call one of the house-elves to bring me some of my paperwork from my study and settle in to get something done while I sit and wait to find out which version of my husband will be waking up later.

               

               

 


End file.
